


The Way You Did Before

by aobaethebae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A more gay than bisexual John, Alternative S3 E01, Amnesia, But it's not obvious, Clueless John, Confused John, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Devoted Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Literature, M/M, Mary never happened, Memory Loss, Pining Sherlock, Romance, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Sherlock is a romantic, Slow Burn, Then sad things happen, road to recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 00:24:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7486035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aobaethebae/pseuds/aobaethebae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortly after Sherlock returns from the grave, John is involved in a serious accident that leads to an unexpected head injury and he loses all memories of Sherlock and Baker Street. After recovering in hospital physically, John returns to 221B and reacquaints himself with the place he used to call home, trying to remember his roommate- the man he knows as Sherlock Holmes. Little does he know, he had forgotten more than just Baker Street, more than just a roommate, and Sherlock attempts to bring his memories back in the gentlest way possible.</p><p>A gentle way only a loving genius can ever conceive of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is my first Sherlock fanfic so there's a milestone! :)  
> This is definitely quite an angsty story that will unfold more of the past as it goes, and how John and Sherlock got here.  
> Each chapter will have a theme, a key thing and a message, you'll know what I mean by the end!
> 
> (Written while listening to: We Don't Talk Anymore by Charlie Puth ft. Selena Gomez)

The first thing he noticed was the tangled scent of tea and smoke. One definitely did not produce the other, yet the scents tangled anyway, tickling his nostrils. John wrinkled his nose as his senses came to life, one after another. He opened his eyes slowly, resisting the urge to scratch and rub at them as a plain, cream ceiling came into view.

With a rustling of sheets, he willed his muscles and arms back to motion, pushing down on the bed as leverage so he could sit up. Streaks of his sandy hair pointed at different directions, but John was yet to notice. As he stared around his simple yet new room, he familiarized himself again with its surroundings. A wooden cabinet to his right, a wardrobe not further away from the door and a small dresser next to the bed. Not much else. While he absorbed the view, John forced his mind into stimulation, running through his agendas for the day.

John drew a blank. He had just awoken, but…not much else. Did he have work? John glanced at the clock at his bedside table, only to see the time. 11 am. If he had traditional work, he would be late now, so there was no point.

Within a few minutes, he made an effort to change into a pair of pants, a simple white shirt and a vest on top in a calming sea-green color. John descended the stairs to follow the scent of tea, but stopped as an idea flashed in his head. John had to ponder for a moment why this information wasn’t basic knowledge from the time he awoke.

Ah, yes. He had been living here for a while. He had a roommate who seemed to move in and out of the flat smoothly. Apparently, they had been living together even before…the accident.

He had been running down the road, and a cab driver that had fallen asleep on the wheel crashed into him. Comatose for two months. Some brain damage.

John swallowed and finished the last of his steps, walking into the kitchen to find a cup of tea sitting on the table. Hearing a step to his right, John snapped his head quickly towards the sound and saw him.

His roommate.

Curious aquamarine eyes studied the man he called his roommate, who was standing near a coffee table cluttered with books in the middle of the living room. Sherlock, his name was. A nest of dark, rich curls crowned his head, which were garnished with a pair of the bluest crystal for eyes. As blue as the sea waves crashing upon a sandy, white shore. John’s gaze shifted to those cheekbones, sharp and proud, he could almost-

“I’m working. See you.”

Sherlock had interrupted his thoughts, lips pursed and worry flashing through those blues for just an instant before he turned away, blocking John’s view of them. Confused, John allowed himself to nod slowly, watching as the taller man paced quickly out the living room, down the stairs and out the front. A deep, wooden slam signaled his abrupt exit.

Turning back to the table slowly, John was lost in his thoughts, mainly the image of Sherlock’s face resonating in his head.

The cup of tea was still there, steaming and hot, sitting on a saucer rather neatly. It was one of those matching sets. Wedged on the side of the saucer was a simple half-sandwich with ham and cheese. It was toasted, though a little burnt in the middle. Nevertheless, the wafting smell of cheese interested John and he quickly took the slice and bit into it.

That needed to be washed down quickly with tea. He set the sandwich back down. Callous fingers wrapped around the cup’s handle and John lifted it to his lips for a sip. His view of the amber liquid faded from view as he moved to set the cup back down on the saucer. Then there it was.

A slip of paper, in a soft cream hue almost matched the saucer it was placed upon, was folded in a neat square to the size of the indentation meant for the cup. It fit perfectly, as a square within a circle. Tilting his head slightly, John set the cup on the table instead and took the small slip, unfolding it swiftly. The paper felt lavish and thick, like the kinds bought from specialty stationery stores, maybe even imported from places like Kenya or Bohemia.

 

**_“He stepped down, trying not to look long at Him, as if He were the sun,_ **

**_yet he saw Him, like the sun, even without looking.”_ **

The words sunk into him gently, like a brand marking leather with a searing heat- if such a thing could ever be painless and soft.  John breathed in deeply as he read the words a second time, feeling a strange warmth in his lungs and chest. Glancing to the doorway, he blinked a couple of times, as if expecting Sherlock would be standing there the next moment. But he wasn’t, the stairway remained empty.

His disappointment lingering, the blonde took the cup and set it back on the saucer, note still in hand as he glanced back at the table. Not far from the saucer was a small phone, its screen face down. It seemed like one of those older models, definitely not a smartphone or at least an early type.

John moved to take the phone, and upon closer inspection he saw the engraved name. Harry Watson – From Clara. Turning it over, the sliding screen and multiple keys were a familiar sight. It was his. Suddenly, John twitched and closed his eyes as his mind whirred to life, forcing images and sounds in his head against his will.

'Use mine.'

Laboratory.

'Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?'

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Author's Note: Anyone recognize that?  
Not everyone is a literature buff, but Sherlock definitely is in this story!  
The quote was from Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. And yes, all the 'she' words have been changed to 'He'. ;)

 


	2. The Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, thanks for the support, the comment and the kudos! :) It's a good way to start.  
> This time, we find ourselves another note, another message and a step further into piecing together John Watson's precious memory.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> (Written while listening to: Ordinary People by John Legend)

He simply stared at his blank document page, fingers resting on the keys, unable to convey the buzzing ideas that fought for dominance in his head. His psychiatrist Angela had suggested writing a journal, just like he had years ago, but cautioned him against reading his own blog, as it may be a bit too much of an memory overload.

John didn’t mind- he didn’t peek at the blog, no matter how curious he became. Afternoons were spent staring at the window, searching the skies for semblances of memories, or at least a way to sort out the ones that had recently returned. St Bart’s. Sherlock was a genius, who had guessed his situation with a simple glance at him and his phone, and together…they solved a murder and found a self-depreciating murderer whose days were numbered.

That night, he felt the first burst of thrill that hadn’t been present since the battlefield. Running down the streets after a mistaken cab.

Forcing his gaze to shift away from the sky outside the window and back to his laptop, John’s eyes refused to settle on his computer and wandered to his tea cup. Whenever he saw a cup or mug of tea, he remembered the lavish note with elusive meanings. The blonde looked over at his bedside table, where the first note sat, folded once again, just as neatly as before. Just thinking of the words within had John reeling in that warmth again. He hadn’t mentioned the note to his roommate, though Sherlock has surely written it.

There was no one else.

John shook his head to rid himself of thoughts about the note, was he becoming too obsessed with it? He quickly reached down to take his cup of tea for a sip, a slight break in the routine of thinking, but stopped. The liquid that touched his lips was cold, having lost its heat throughout the hours of John’s mulling.

Sighing, John left his chair, a small chair he had moved from the living room and up to his own bedroom, along with a round table fit for one person. He had taken to valuing a little privacy when delving into his thoughts since the note came. He wouldn’t know how to react if he spoke to Sherlock again. He would know that John would have read the note. Surely.

Taking the cup, John decided to refill it and then attempt a journal entry again. Every step down the stairs was slow, contemplative, there was no hurry. It was an instinct for him to glance about the living room the moment he entered, and he noticed the lack of light. The curtains had been drawn, casting a layer of sepia tint over the whole area. The second thing John saw was an identical mug sitting on top of the fireplace. John frowned softly, that cup could easily fall over and spill onto the carpet, or at least leave cup marks on the antique wood surface.

Striding through the room, past the armchairs, John reached for the cup and froze as he noticed something in the mirror. Himself. And someone’s back. Sherlock’s back. Almost gasping, the blonde turned around to see Sherlock’s long body, slightly hunched and laying snugly on the couch without stirring. Legs tucked in like a newborn trying to be comfortable in a small space. Draped over him was a dressing gown of a smooth navy hue, which emitted a slight sheen from the faint light seeping through the curtain gaps. Upon closer inspection, his broad shoulders rose and fell softly, without any resulting snores.

Sherlock was asleep.

John couldn’t believe he didn’t even notice his roommate had gotten home. He had heard nothing from downstairs, let alone the living room- no heavy steps, slams or even the twisting of doorknobs. Making an effort to be quiet, he turned back to the mantle and took the mug, only to pause and see a slither of cream paper peeking from behind the mirror.

He chose to let the mug go, to let it stay there a little while longer as he reached behind the mirror and took the paper, which happened to be…another folded note. Made of the same, probably Bohemian paper with inked words that sent another wave of searing warmth washing through his lungs. John glanced up to his reflection for a moment, staring into a somewhat tired, round face with crow’s feet at the eyes. A face with light, sandy hair that shone even against the dullness of the room, as the note’s words echoed in his thoughts.

 

**_“There are darknesses in life and there are lights,_ **

**_and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights.”_ **

 

John could see those deep blue eyes of his waver, eyelids blinking a little too rapidly as he tried to tear his gaze away to something else. Anything else. His now frantic gaze searched the mantle, only to spot another piece of paper sitting next to the skull. He wondered if it was another note, but this one was longer, unfolded and a different shade of white.

Grabbing it almost hastily, John turned the slip over to see the fancy, dark brown lettering of a logo. _The Cross Keys Pub_ , Dartmoor. Three nights stay for a double bedroom, for the name Sherlock Holmes, with a food tab included.

Baskerville. The word resonated in his head and John inhaled sharply, trying to mentally reach for the word in his mind, trying to reach for the meaning that came with it. Staring at the fireplace did nothing and he closed his eyes, which, instead of darkness, brought along with it images. Voices. Echoing in his mind loudly to the point that John feared he would become deaf.

‘I am just your friend.’

A blazing fireplace in The Cross Keys.

‘I don’t have friends!’

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Author's Note: What do you think of the second quote? It is from Bram Stoker's Dracula.  
There are definitely patterns within the chapter, and if you've noticed the one with my chapter titles...comment and let me know!

 


	3. The Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, at the next chapter!  
> Progress is evident and now heartstrings will be pulled.  
> For the best heartstrings-pulling experience, try reading with the song below playing :)
> 
> (Written while listening to All of Me by John Legend ft. Lindsey Stirling: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xwsYvBYZcx4 )

John knew his therapist meant well when she suggested another method to help him concentrate on writing. Music. Though he had no musical talent himself, he loved enjoying the music he grew up with and songs that meant much to him, both old and new.

All she did when he told her about the mysterious notes was smile softly, before advising him to let the memories sink in when he was comfortable. He did not have to ask or talk to Sherlock about them, especially since Sherlock never pursued a proper conversation with him. He could ask questions when everything in his mind had settled a little more and when he felt he was ready. John couldn’t help but agree to that.

It was a little easier that way.

So here he was, staring down at the hardwood surface of the dining table, observing the uneven, swirling rings of the oak under the varnish, laptop untouched. But it was just open there, playing songs on the latest playlist he found in his music player program. A combination of rock, classic, and a few other unique songs as well. So far, he recognized many of the songs, but nothing came to mind, no more scenes or voices.

It was all too vivid when he saw himself and Sherlock in the labs of Baskerville, then running down Devil’s Hollow, weaving through the fog and searching for the maker of the thunderous growls. They had been great friends by then, despite having their first major argument as it deepened their connection even more.

But that did not help him make sense of the notes. Or Sherlock avoiding him. John knew one of the reasons he sat down at the dining area was to hopefully catch a glimpse of Sherlock. He wasn’t ready to ask, but…maybe they would have a positive interaction. A small conversation. Anything. The blonde wasn’t exactly sure why he wanted something like that now.

A song by ACDC was playing through the laptop’s speakers when he heard a set of footsteps moving up the stairs and into the hall. John turned to the doorway to see Sherlock, forgetting to breathe for a moment. His eyes trailed from Sherlock’s messy hair, to those blue irises and down the sleek, black suit that framed his body all the way down to his toes. The collar was open, with no tie, revealing a hint of a strong, pale collarbone.

It seemed, once John had returned his attention to those blue irises that they were staring back at him intently, as if they were studying him as well. He hadn’t realized his jaw had dropped ever so slightly, causing his lips to part- was he going to say something? There were no words he could find, however.

Sherlock noticed his hesitation to speak, glancing downwards quickly before heading to the living room to sit in one of the armchairs without a word, his back to him. John immediately pursed his lips, realizing the moment had been wasted. He inwardly chastised himself for being a silent idiot.

Rising from his own chair slightly, John felt curious enough to see what Sherlock was doing. At the same moment, the taller man had bent down and reached for his violin case, opening it and producing the small instrument. Looking back to his laptop, it occurred to John that his music would overlap and disturb Sherlock’s practice, even if the ACDC was already fading away. There would probably be another song after that.

“Ah- I’ll get my earphones...” Not really thinking much at that instant, John took his laptop bag, unbuttoning the pockets in a fumbling search as John Legend’s voice filled the room, singing All Of Me. Too concentrated on finding the headphones, John nearly jumped when he heard a note from Sherlock’s violin. He immediately turned to the man so he could tell him he would have the music quieted soon, and he could play in peace.

John stopped mid-breath, staring at Sherlock’s back as the next few notes played seamlessly, completely in sync with the song. Every crooning tone was in sync with each crescendo, riding along with the piano’s lead. _You’re my end and my beginning, even when I lose I’m winning._ Supported with a gentle but flowing command of ringing notes that cradled every chorus, as Sherlock’s arm swayed with practiced precision.

His silhouette was framed by the afternoon sun, highlighting every curl at the side of his head, his sharp nose, and slightly parted lips. _You're my downfall, you're my muse_.  John winced for a moment as his jaw tightened, unable to tear his eyes away. His ears were slaves to the music.

 _My worst distraction, my rhythm and blues._ Sherlock had mastered the song, there was no doubt _._ John tried to look closer, but he found his vision blurred due to his eyes growing moist. That was when he knew something was stirring in his mind, from the deep recesses of his memories. _I give you all of me, and you give me all of you._

Why was he wanting to cry?

The blonde quickly blinked a few times as the last of the song faded away, trying to keep tears from falling and somehow, managing to succeed. When his vision had cleared, Sherlock was setting his violin down and putting it away, digging a hand into his pocket to answer his vibrating phone. He then promptly walked out the door with only one word for John. “Case.”

John felt his heart sink at the cold exit, still trying to even his now ragged breathing. But the moment the front door had shut, he stood from his chair and paced to the living room, intent on finding something he knew he wanted. A note.

And there it was. Wedged between the violin case’s closed edges, was a folded note made of the same Bohemian paper. John wasted no time and grabbed it, unfolding to see the next lines that, for sure, was dedicated to him.

 

**_“…Yet everything that touches us, me and you,_ **

**_takes us together like a violin’s bow,_ **

**_which draws one voice out of two separate strings._ **

**_Upon what instrument are we two spanned?_ **

**_And what musician holds us in his hand?”_ **

 

Every word burned into John’s mind. When he finally glanced away from the paper, he caught sight of the clear ashtray that was sitting on the table beside the violin case. He hadn’t even noticed it in his rush to find the important note. With a gasp, John slowly sank to his knees as colors flooded his head along with images of deteriorating grey walls and this time, a different set of blue eyes matched with dark red lips.

‘You jealous?’

‘We’re not a couple.’

A cold, empty warehouse.

‘Yes you are.’

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Author's Note: This quote is from Rainer Maria Rilke's Ahead of All Parting. What do you think?  
Now more obvious emotions are coming to light, and Sherlock's notes and actions have stronger messages. Is he moving too fast? 

It only gets better from here...

****


	4. The Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the next stage of drama is here to keep a tight hold on your heartstrings!  
> John remembers a critical memory, and it almost seems like he can barely hold his memories and emotions together.  
> But Sherlock will be there...
> 
> As always, I love hearing all your feedback and the amazing reviews are really driving my muse crazy happy! :) Thank you!
> 
> (Written while listening to A Drop In The Ocean by Ron Pope)

 

It was the day that John had resolved that he needed to put his own will to action. He needed to do something, which was to speak to Sherlock. Being uncomfortable didn’t matter anymore when he was so confused most of the time, and the headaches were constant.

Sherlock’s attempts at avoiding him had been masterful, but John didn’t want to feel the same rush of warmth, the swelling of his chest, then the influx of memories with no explanation for them. He was a doctor and he knew the risks of overloading memories, but he couldn’t stand it anymore.

The blonde had intentionally stayed awake for the afternoon when he realized that Sherlock had left in the morning of that day. He would wait, even late into the night, for the moment he came home. Though despite his best efforts, John found himself opening his eyes in his own bed later, by the time it was the early evening- his body had betrayed him by taking a nap.

Looking up at the ceiling, John’s nose twitched. There it was- that burning, smoky scent, a sign that Sherlock was probably experimenting just below. Quickly pulling on his jumper, John yawned as he rose from his bed and started walking down the stairs in hurried steps. The stairway and the hallway was just a blur to him in his rush.

He was greeted with the sight that he needed, a mop of ebony curls facing away from him, blue irises obscured from view as Sherlock was hunched over at his microscope. His long, pale fingers were carefully turning the coarse scope. John swallowed and stared at him for a moment, Sherlock surely knew he was there, yet he showed no initiative in interacting with him whatsoever. It had to be John, and strangely, he didn’t mind being the first to do so. With a long intake of breath, he began to speak, it was now or never. The situation called for it, and he couldn’t hesitate.

“Sherlock, I need to-“

“Busy.” Was the quick, blunt reply in that familiar, baritone voice.

John pursed his lips. “You don’t understand, we need-“

“Very busy.”

The heat of unbridled anger grew within John, as his held breath shifted over to his puffing, tensing shoulders. Sherlock had been playing this game with him, and he deserved the answers. Before John could raise his voice and step closer, Sherlock was the one who initiated the conversation this time, as he removed the current petri dish from under the lens and slid over another one in its place.

“Laptop.”

Laptop? Caught off-guard, before John even realized it, he was already walking to his laptop- the bait of a new note was just too hard to resist. After this, surely he would express his anger and ask for the explanation. The laptop was on the dining table, the dim light of its screen shone through the small gaps, signaling it had been recently used.

John opened it only to see another folded note sitting on the keys. Not paying any regard to the actual screen, he took the paper and quickly worked it open.

 

**_“…it is a temporary madness._ **

**_It erupts like volcanoes and then subsides_ **

**_You have to work out whether your root was entwined together,_ **

**_That it is inconceivable that you should ever part._ **

**_Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away..._ **

**_…this is both an art and a fortunate accident.”_ **

 

The waves of warmth that returned to his chest made John grit his teeth. He was ready to shout his question out at Sherlock, even when in the back of his mind he knew he could be overreacting. His eyes looked to Sherlock, who was shifting the same dish under his microscope carefully, before glancing back at the laptop.

Only to see Sherlock’s face again. On a video player program. With a quick tap of his finger, John followed the instinct of his curiosity and pressed play. It was a video of Sherlock, pacing the very living room that was right across them, asking the cameraman why they were even doing this in the first place.

John felt a slight tightening in his chest at the mention of dinner, and his friends hating him. Suppressed hatred. Then the Sherlock in the video paused awkwardly and took a moment to gather his thoughts. Once again, something was stirring within John, the video was not just a greeting, not just a mere birthday present. He knew deep inside it was something else, there was a reason why he felt like his chest was being pierced, almost painfully.

“You can stop being dead.” John found himself muttering, tensing as he wondered why he even said that. Video Sherlock turned to him, smiled and wished him many happy returns, promising he would be with him again soon. By this point, John could feel his breaths quickening as he struggled to keep his vision straight.

The world was wavering, shifting and he could feel himself stagger as he clumsily pressed the stop button when the video ended. John had been through this so many times already, he expected the images to come and the voices to echo, until he would find himself in the same spot again. However, the moment the memory finished, everything faded to black and John felt his body crumpling to the ground.

A phone call, Sherlock’s shaky voice.

“That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.”

Sherlock’s silhouette against the sky.

“No. Don’t-!”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Author's Note: More drama! The quote is from Captain Corelli’s Mandolin by Louis de Bernieres!

Poor John has passed out, what will Sherlock do? 

****


	5. Judgement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As some of you had suggested, more would be revealed :)  
> John takes the trip of a lifetime down memory lane, in a place he never even thought he had.
> 
> (Written while listening to: Mirrors By Justin Timberlake)

Everything had been black, and John felt trapped in the darkness for what seemed like hours, days or weeks. Time passed, or so he thought it did.

The only time he surfaced from this darkness was when he felt a strong light shining against his eyes, making him raise his arm to shield himself from its rays. He became aware that he was standing. Using his other hand to feel for something, anything, he soon felt the smooth wooden edges of a door swinging past and brushing against his palm. He took it and pushed the door open further, stepping into the source of the light.

John resolved he could not keep being blind any longer, he slowly set his arm down and forced his eyes open, finding himself looking at the living room of 221B, the curtains had all been drawn. It was bright, sunnier than most days in the late autumn. His eyebrows creased as a tingle ran up his spine. This was home, but something seemed strange. He had fallen down before, he felt himself land on the floor- but now he was standing, and Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

Rushing out the living room and climbing up the stairs, he headed straight to the only place he knew Sherlock would be, if he hadn’t left the house. John’s instincts were flaring. The flat was too quiet, there were no sounds of pedestrians, cars or even just the wind from outside.

His steps were heavy thumps along the carpeted wood before he opened the door to Sherlock’s bedroom.

What John saw rooted him to the spot.

There he was sitting in the living room of 221B, on the comfy armchair he liked to be possessive with. Another John in a different set of clothes, a different match of jumper and jeans. Sherlock was sitting right across him. Second John was reading a book silently, before he decided to shift in his seat and read a part out loud.

Wasn’t he just in the living room? Who was the imposter? Jaw dropping slowly, John wondered why neither of them inside noticed his entry.

  
  
**_“…all that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream._**

**_Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears._ **

**_We loved with a love that was more than love.”_ **

****

Second John seemed pleased with himself as a small smile tugged on his lips. Sherlock, who had been reading the paper, rolled his eyes. “Literature, again?”  
“It’s Edgar Allan Poe, a classic. I actually like literature, you know. Sometimes you don’t even need the whole book, a quote says so much more…”  
“Sounds dull.”

John blinked, just for a moment, and suddenly the room was empty. No Second John or Sherlock, just empty chairs. Shaking his head for a moment, he feared that he had finally began to hallucinate- he was losing his mind.

In a slight panic, John looked away and slammed the door shut. He quickly turned back to the stairs and found that…there were more. More floors. More levels of the same mahogany stairs, reaching up into an infinity above. Before his panic gave way to a sudden meltdown, his own words echoed back in his thoughts. A dream within a dream. Suddenly, John understood the whole of it.

This was his mind palace.

That one thought, which he wasn’t completely sure was true or false, made John calm back down anyway. His breathing slowed and he lost the barely noticeable twitch his left hand was doing. Choosing not to rush up the stairs, John gathered himself as he made his way to the next ‘living room’ of John Watson’s 221B mind palace.

The next room revealed a pale Mind Palace John sitting by himself, in the same armchair as before, with a glass of whisky in his hand. His eyes were moist as he stared down at something on the table. John followed his gaze only to see the headlines of ‘Genius Criminal Jumps Off Into Oblivion’ from a crumpled tabloid front page. He noticed Second John gripping something dark in his other hand, wrist shaking- it was his Browning.

John chose to close that door and moved to the next one, his fingers tracing the wallpaper as he took his time ascending to the next level.

This living room was a mess, the books and papers normally at the table were floating down or on the floor already. Billy the skull was rolling onto the carpet and John had to take a step back as he nearly collided with the entangled figures of Mind Palace John and Sherlock crashing into the east wall. Mind Palace John was gripping Sherlock by the collar, which he could reach but just, while Sherlock’s nose was bloody.

“How could you do this!”

“..John, I…”  
“I grieved for you, you wretched bastard!”

John had had enough of this scene, he closed the door and continued his little adventure up to the next room, wondering what he would see next. It was surprising how calm he felt, but with every door, a piece of the puzzle in his mind slid into place and the confusion that plagued him was shrinking away.

The scene that awaited him was the same messy living room, it looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned at all. But Mind Palace John was hovering over the armchair where Sherlock was sitting, the taller man was sporting a fading black eye and a swollen lip. Mind Palace John was leaning down without a single word and dabbing what looked to be a small, cloth-wrapped ice pack to Sherlock’s swollen lip.

Suddenly, Sherlock reached to touch his hand, long pale fingers smoothed over the slightly tanned skin, guiding it to relax and lay flat against his cheek. So that it would almost be cupping the sharp cheekbone. Mind Palace John’s eyes widened, softening as they brimmed with tears.

Though he didn’t know why, John closed the door, it felt like that was enough time for that room. By the time he was back to striding up the stairs, he looked up to see the level above him was the last. Which didn’t make sense as there seemed to be so many more levels before. But this was a mind palace, it wasn’t meant to be physically plausible.

Shrugging the thought away, he opened the last door, seeing the living room bathed in a warm light of a fire in the evening. Casting shadows against John was his Mind Palace counterpart and Sherlock, entangled once again, but this time in a close dance. A slow waltz. Mind Palace John had his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, while the detective’s arm was around his waist. A soft pink hue seemed to dust both their cheeks as they looked into each other’s eyes.

“...I’m just not that good at this.” Mind Palace John sighed.  
“You will need time to learn.”

A moment of silence befell the two, the only sound was from the old turntable sitting on a desk in the corner, playing a record with a sleeve labelled ‘Valse Sentimentale’.

Sherlock began to slow down, still swaying lightly but one hand had reached into his pocket, leaving John’s waist empty. This only made Mind Palace John quirk his eyebrow slightly out of curiosity. The real John stepped forward to get a closer look, knowing the figures would not even notice his presence.

It was a midnight blue velvet pouch that Sherlock had in his palm. The detective had already discreetly slipped his finger into it and retrieved something as the pouch was deflated and empty. But something underneath it was glinting and catching the light of the fire.

Mind Palace John looked to Sherlock with large eyes for an answer, eyeing the pouch but not seeing exactly was under it- the very item that had been inside it in the first place.

“Matrimony.”

“..wh-what?”

Sherlock had taken John’s left hand with his empty one, closing around it gently and stroking the knuckle of his ring finger softly.

“…the one thing I never deduced I would ultimately yearn for.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Author's Note: So now John has regained most of his memory- but something is missing, what is it?

The story is at its cusp, rising to the climax- what will bring the two back together like they were before?

 

As always, I love hearing all your thoughts and feedback, thank you so much for all your support! :)

 

 


	6. The Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, guys! At the very end of our achingly sweet tale.  
> John finds the last missing piece of his memories, the last part of him that he needed to be John Watson.  
> Or is it John W. Holmes?
> 
> (Written while listening to Maps by Maroon 5 and Just Be by Paloma Faith)

John suddenly opened his eyes and gasped, having been pulled out of his own mind palace. For a moment, he thought he was still there as the somber notes of Valse Sentimentale drifted in the air, but with a simple sidelong glance he figured the sound was from downstairs.

He was no longer standing in the endless stairways, instead sitting up in the comfort of his own bed. The sight of his pale cream ceiling and the scarce furniture brought no relief. Just when he wanted to see the most important memory, John felt the rug had been pulled from under him. He turned his attention back to the music, noticing a raw loudness to its notes and realized it was no record- it was Sherlock playing it with his own violin.

Sherlock.

The name echoed in his head and John could feel his lips quiver. Sherlock. His body felt like it was being burned slowly, like a fire had started from his chest that spread through his limbs and finally, his head. He needed him to be there. Feel his hands, his arms, his hair. To know he was still real and was there to stay.

“Sh-sherlock!”

The violin abruptly stopped, cutting off the beautiful melody without any grace. But John didn’t care, he needed to look into his eyes and know. He needed to be sure it was all real. Not a mind palace trick or the hallucinations of a damaged man. Brisk footsteps sounded on the stairs before the tall, dark figure John needed was there before him. Dressed in dark pants and a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled and the buttons straining against his chest.

Just as John had thought, Sherlock did not say anything. The man’s face seemed calm, but the worry was etched in the corners of his slightly wide eyes and somewhat parted lips. John’s gaze softened at the sight of Sherlock, and for once, the silence that fell upon them did not feel awkward or forced. It was a necessary silence. A way for them to simply process and understand each other’s presence.

John could see Sherlock’s gaze relax and melt, his ever-deducing eyes knew something was different this time. He himself could barely contain everything bubbling inside of him, and for a moment John thought his body would explode, starting with his heart. The strain showed in his body physically, he was shaking subtly. He blinked several times, looking at Sherlock with desperation brimming in his eyes as he lifted a trembling arm towards him, as if he were reaching for help.

Sherlock glanced at his hand and then walked over slowly, sitting down on the bed beside John, before taking his trembling hand and cradling it within his own. “John...” Just one word, filled with waves of sentiment, hope and laced with some fear, was enough to break him from his spell.

John was surprised he could move his lips and even speak properly at this stage. Or at least be understandable. There was one last thing he needed to know.

“Where is it?”

He saw it then, Sherlock’s icy blue irises shifted, swirling before him as he produced something from his pocket. It wasn’t the velvet pouch, rather just the white gold ring with one tiny diamond embedded within its deepest band, barely there but giving a sparkle of its own once met with any light.

That sparkle, even from just a tiny gem, blinded John. He winced and closed his eyes, gasping when he heard the rush of cars outside, finding himself in the final room of his mind palace once again.

“You’ve always been protecting- now let me protect you.”

He could feel the snug fit of the ring on his ring finger. Sherlock’s smile was growing.

His phone buzzed.

“They found the suspect in the next street.”

“A honeymoon case. Let’s go.”

Hand in hand.

“Come on, John!”

The bright pair of lights.

The flash of pain in his right shoulder, then his head.

The hard ground, his hand smacking against the concrete.

The ring slipping off, rolling away.

“John!”

Then someone shook his shoulders, but surprisingly they didn’t hurt like they should have. “John!” It was Sherlock, and John was ready to open his eyes and see the wreckage, only to feel those hands gripping his shoulders were warm. Everything was warm, unlike the cold night air of the London streets.

He saw Sherlock, still there by his side. “John...” John couldn’t believe it. He had resurfaced from his memories without losing himself. The wave of relief washed over him, soon followed by realization, grief and something familiar that made him feel like crumbling.

“Sherlock...”

John couldn’t stop himself, his face scrunched as he felt the tears pooling in his eyes, spilling over onto his cheeks. The choked sobs erupted from his lips and he inhaled sharply as he felt Sherlock’s arms circling him, a large hand was stroking against the back of his head and through sandy blonde hair.

 

**_“No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,_ **

**_But as truly loves on to the close.”_ **

****

He could hear Sherlock’s voice breaking slightly, and it served only to make John cry further, burying his face into his shoulder and letting his shirt soak away all of his tears. All he needed was Sherlock, the missing piece that his mind has so treacherously hidden away from him.

After a moment, John pulled back and suddenly pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, exhaling gently as the warm feeling of those lips molding against own felt familiar, wanted and needed.

Once they parted, John looked down for a moment and took Sherlock’s hand, pressing the shining ring against his smooth palm. He began to lift his gaze and unsure icy blue eyes met teary, deep ocean ones. Questioning for a moment.

Then Sherlock’s other hand left John’s head, moving to touch the ring. He reached for John’s trembling fingers, waiting.

John pressed his forehead onto Sherlock’s for a moment, whispering against his lips. “I do.”

And Sherlock slipped the ring back into its rightful place, his crystal blues sparkled with both adoration and wetness.

“I love you.”

“I am yours, John.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Author's Note: Thank you so, so much everyone for accompanying me on this emotional, touching journey!

I hope you loved the story and its little secrets and messages as much as I did~

The final quote was from Thomas Moore's poem, 'Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms'.

 

Please let me know of your thoughts, feedback and even your theories! 

Again, thank you, you are all so amazing :)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! :)  
> As you guys may or may not know, I'm an avid RPer and I'd loooove to offer the opportunity to RP this story out with me!  
> Besides what's shown in the chapters, there's also everyday events, the events that lead to the accident and a lot of other good stuff!  
> If you want to RP with me as Sherlock, message me on tumblr with the same username aobaethebae ~


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